Spiteful Ode to a Butter Fly

Butterfly, damn butterfly.

You're not a real butterfly.

You're just a normal fly,

which sat upon my butter

that's why I'm gonna now,

I'm gonna fetch the swatter.

And I will surely avenge

my now infected butter,

for it's the only thing

which in my life does matter.

You sat on my left cheek.

Some say it is a bless.

But if on me I hit you,

my own face I will mess.

So go away fly,

go away.

Spit down on your path you lay.

I don't want you in my kitchen

and I hate your buzz to listen.

I don't like you as a pet

You're just here for my nape's sweat.

Did I get you?

Did I not?

To find the body I cannot.

So I sit on triumph's verge,

while you, from behind emerge.

And you fly to the next room,

cunningly delaying your doom.

Fly you toadfood!

Fly you cunt!

I will get you when you land.

* * *

* Traditional anti-fly song by the peoples of Swamp Cukoucukacou, during the first Swamplordiness election. The toads won that time, with the mosquitoes coming very close, contrary to the general belief that the Electric Racketman has always claimed lordship.

First published in Kernel Kiki's 1894 poem and song collection, titled “Silliously?”

 

News - Introducing News and Rev. Fitz's Challenge

Welcome to News, where we talk about the past.

The following series is created by the exceptionally perceptive writer and cartoonist (among others) Rev. Fitz

It follows Malcolm Steadman along his early-morning meteor shower of ominous realizations, while he only does what he believes to be “nothing”.

The proof: Existential Terror and Breakfast  

It's the simple stuff that get you nervous.

The inescapable, mundane activities you have to go through in order to be and therefore think.

Every little detail of that small around you. They perpetually repeat before your eyes until reality's colors fade away and the things which were previously defined and common, are now something new.

They have become a question.

A completely unexpected and superficially illogical one, yet enough to fire the engines of an inevitable train of thought.

It can be anything, really.

Like breakfast.

Malcolm Steadman has breakfast every day and every day he has mixed feelings about it.

It's witty, humorous and contemplative and bottom line is I enjoy it a lot. It's as enjoyable as if food for thought is actually ice cream and you just realized you're not lactose intolerant.

So check it out.

Also, check out the “31 Days of First Impressions Challenge” he started: Day 23: Denham's Dentifrice

  

Every day he's judging yet another book by its cover. He was kind to speak his mind about Denham's Dentifrice.

He likes squares too

That's all for now.

News Out.

Once Upon in Al' Dah Kash

Once upon a time, there was a sultan who was mostly stingy and enjoyed counting his money and numerous possessions more than anything.

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 5

The manor was not the most pleasant of places to be alone in.

Theodore was slightly rocking, silent on the chair. Outside, in the absence of wind, the rain was falling vertically along the surfaces and it sounded so orchestrated, so even, like a sequence of notes repeating over and over. Lost inside a reverie of new-found realizations, shades of mystery and dread emerged to darken his mind. Like pieces in a dreamed-of puzzle the memories came together, creating menacing, strangely familiar shapes.

He remembered now; the man at the bar.
What he had said.

The Intermediates

This is the place where all the important things happen.

So they told me at least.

I didn't argue.

I've been coming here for years, but it didn't get any easier with time.

We were given a space to be and a seat to sit. Next to each other and still invisible to all but ourselves.

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 4

 The room wasn't particularly spacious and the thick beams on the ceiling hanging a little above Theodore's head made it look even smaller. The decoration, before it was furiously altered, involved bookcases filled with leather-bound books and a collection of various academic tools, from pens and compasses to telescopes and astrolabes. Now, everything lied on the floor with most of the items beyond the state of a simple repair.

He approached the desk which had been briefly cleared from the debris and sat on the rocking chair as the man before him had suggested.

“My name is Jebediah Code” said the man and offered a wrinkled hand in greeting. “I'm glad you received my letter.”

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 3

A subtle light slowly crept from outside and the slight adjustment in illumination woke Theodore up.

He reluctantly got off the bed and moved his still slumbering body towards the window. Under a dense ceiling of gray clouds the city was already awake. The streets below crawled with people, crafting, trading, strolling around as much as they could, before the skies cracked open once more. His over indulgence in liquors last night had provided for a devious bowel and a nice headache, so he poured some water on his face to consolidate his senses. As he saw his dreary reflection in the water-bowl, he tried to gather his recent memories to figure out some possible reason to grab the day by the sideburns and not call in sick.

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 2

The rain was still pouring outside, but the heat of the fireplace and the chaotic chatter of the customers dispelled it from Theodore's mind. One of Rumporth's more questionably decent taverns, The Handsome Devil was cramped this hour of the day. The owner of the place, always sitting behind the bar was definitely not handsome, but he did possess some undefined devilish quality.

The Blooms of Perennial Wisdom: Chapter 1

It was around sundown. Although, sun rarely visits these parts.

The light filtering through the dark blanket of clouds was fading and oil lanterns took its place. Heavy rain was pouring down like God's rods, crumbling Theodore Hold's constantly malfunctioning parasol and aptly revealing him to be as out of place as he already felt. A chapel was nearby. He stood beside a weather-beaten cypress tree, part of a small congregation of figures surrounding a hole in the ground. Funerals always made him uneasy. It was the people there. This one, luckily, was attended only by a few.